


Succor

by ancient_moonshine



Series: Moonlight in His Hands [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adult Eärendil, Eöl's A+ Parenting Skills, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Rape, PTSD, Panic Attack, Past Child Abuse, Secret Relationship, Uncle/Nephew Incest, [NOT between Eärendil and Maeglin]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 08:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20871374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancient_moonshine/pseuds/ancient_moonshine
Summary: “I was watching you at court.” It's Eärendil’s turn to snap, and that forces Maeglin into silence because he’s never seen the boy angry before. “You were smiling and your fëa was calm as anything, but your hand was curled into a fist because you were keeping it from shaking.  It’s still shaking now.” Eärendil grabs his wrist, pulls it up. To Maeglin’s horror and shame, the boy’s right. There’s a tremor in his hand that he can’t stop, as he unfurls his fingers. He hadn’t been able to stop it, either, when he was before Morgoth.“You’re frightened.” Eärendil says. “Something is scaring you and Iknowyou, it means something happened when you were at the Encircling Mountains. Something bad.”  Warm hands, cradling his, rubbing at his fingers. Eärendil bends his head down, kissing his palm  as Maeglin’s fingers curl around his cheek.  “Maeglin, tell me. Let me help.”





	Succor

The boy notices something’s wrong, of course. It’s one of the most damnable things about him, a quality he’d no doubt inherited from Idril. But whereas Idril had both foresight and distrust enough to know to stay away, Eärendil chases after him after his audience with Turgon.

“Uncle Maeglin-“ Maeglin hurries his stride as he climbs the steps to his chambers. His legs don’t shake, and his back is straight. He remembers how he’d been all but sprawled on the floor before Morgoth’s throne, and the memory wants to make him retch.

Morgoth’s token burns in his pocket. He wants to throw it out, wants to melt it and watch the metal dissolve but Morgoth’s presence in his fractured mind would know.

“_Maeglin-“ _ A hand catches his arm just as he’s reached the top step. Panic nearly has Maeglin throwing Eärendil over the railing, but the boy holds fast. Worried blue eyes catching his gaze, holding it. Maeglin looks around them, breathing hard.

“We’re alone.” Eärendil does a poor job of hiding the hurt in his tone. “Don’t worry, I’ve taken what you said about _discretion _to heart-“ Ugly guilt flares in Maeglin’s chest but his mind and being are still too raw from torture to know how to go about easing the boy’s pain into acquiescence. He’s not even sure he would have had he not just been on the receiving end of Morgoth’s scrutiny.

“Apparently not if I still have to remind you about touching me in public, or calling me by my name.” Maeglin allows anger to seep into his tone, tries to jerk Eärendil’s hand away. The over-familiarity with which Eärendil is touching him would raise whispers, and once Idril and Tuor got wind of those he doubts if the King would take his side if the truth came out. But Eärendil’s expression is set. Before Maeglin can turn away, Eärendil’s grabbed his arm again, pulling him down the corridor to his personal quarters. 

There are Maeglin’s guards, and a couple of his servants who bow and leave quietly and quickly at his nod. Maeglin trusts their discretion – he wouldn’t have taken them into his service if they didn’t know to keep their mouths shut – before he can turn to the boy and rebuke him sharply for his gall, he feels warm hands on either side of his face. Eärendil kisses him, and the world goes quiet.

Maeglin sighs, for one blissful moment forgetting Morgoth rooting through his mind, filling its cracks with his presence, and Eärendil takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between his lips. Tasting him gently. Warmth pouring into him and Maeglin kisses back. Desperate. Tangling his hands in Eärendil’s long, gold hair that was so like Idril’s. Eärendil pulls him close against him, thumbs rubbing circles against his jaw. Kissing him until his mind had resolved itself into something that wasn’t muddled, screaming pain. Until his pulse was racing from something other than fear.

Eärendil breaks the kiss first, the both of them gasping for air. His blue eyes are concerned, and he hasn’t dropped his hands from Maeglin’s face. Maeglin tries to pull away, but Eärendil doesn’t let him, keeping his grip gentle but firm.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, again, and Maeglin snaps.

“_Nothing’s _wrong.” He says, yanking the boy’s hands away from him something in him breaks further at the loss but rage overtakes him now. But before he can say something cruel and cutting that would drive the boy _away _so he could be left alone – like he’d done the last time they were together – Eärendil beats him to speaking.

“I was watching you at court.” It's Eärendil’s turn to snap, and that forces Maeglin into silence because he’s never seen the boy angry before. “You were smiling and your _fëa _was calm as anything, but your hand was curled into a fist because you were keeping it from shaking. It’s still shaking now.” Eärendil grabs his wrist, pulls it up. To Maeglin’s horror and shame, the boy’s right. There’s a tremor in his hand that he can’t stop, as he unfurls his fingers. He hadn’t been able to stop it, either, when he was before Morgoth.

“You’re frightened.” Eärendil says. “Something is scaring you and I _know _you, it means something happened when you were at the Encircling Mountains. Something bad.” Warm hands, cradling his, rubbing at his fingers. Eärendil bends his head down, kissing his palm as Maeglin’s fingers curl around his cheek. “Maeglin, tell me. Let me help.”

The reek of Angband. Morgoth, threatening him with the horror of its dungeons while clawing through his mind. Maeglin’s so lost in the memory that when he feels the earnest, gentle brush of Eärendil’s _fëa _against his, he recoils. Shoving the boy away and staggering back until he hits the wall, the presence and memory of Morgoth surrounding him, suffocating him. Revulsion and horror making him double up as he fights to get breath back in his lungs, trying to keep himself from vomiting. 

Eärendil stares at him. Maeglin gasps for breath, his heart slamming against his ribs. When he was very young and trapped with his mother in Nan Elmoth, Maeglin would push himself into the farthest corner of his room and make himself small. Pretending no one could find him there, that he would be safe. It’s that impulse that overtakes him now. His knees give out without warning and he sinks, shaking, into the carpet. Eärendil’s eyes widen with alarm. Maeglin can hear his name being called but he ignores it, instead sinking onto the floor and pulling his legs up to his chest.

Right now, he doesn’t feel like the most powerful courtier in Gondolin’s court. He feels like a little boy again, hiding in the shadows with his mother.

“Maeglin.” Eärendil kneels down beside him, careful not to startle him, reaching for him. Trying to hide the horror in his innocent blue eyes. Maeglin swallowing the bile rising in his throat. Morgoth’s mind ripping into his. Violation and agony and Morgoth’s lips had been curled into a smirk as he held a shining memory of Eärendil up. _You couldn’t have the mother, so you decided to make use of her son. Very well, if he is what you desire now, you shall keep him, and have Gondolin into the bargain-_

“Maeglin.” Eärendil’s voice is soft. The curve of his shoulder is warm where Maeglin buries his face with a sob he’s unable to fight down, sick with shame. Eärendil pulls him into his arms. Maeglin stiffens for a moment before giving in.

Morgoth’s token, heavy in his pocket. The wounds he’d left in Maeglin’s mind, raw and festering. Maeglin clutches Eärendil to him, the only warm, solid thing left in his world. Like he can cling to the shattered remains of himself by holding onto this boy. Eärendil brushes the hair away from his face.

“Someone hurt you.” Maeglin doesn’t deny it. He breathes, and Eärendil exhales. The sound of it angry, but not at him, Maeglin realizes. Eärendil is furious on his behalf, the angriest Maeglin’s ever seen him. His grip around Maeglin tightens, but not painfully. It takes a while for Maeglin to recognize the reaction as _protectiveness. _

“Maeglin, who did this?” Enraged as he is, he keeps his voice soft, and Maeglin feels a pathetic wave of gratitude wash over him even as his throat constricts. “Please. Tell me.” 

_You cannot. You cannot. _Morgoth, clawing through the landscape of his mind. Rooting out every secret, every fear, every sick, wretched desire, laying him bare and bloody. Maeglin shudders, and he no longer needs to answer because fear seals his throat shut. He doesn’t think he can even speak if he tried. 

Once, when Eärendil was around five years old, he’d seen the boy fall and scrape his knee while playing in the gardens . His parents had immediately rushed to his side, Tuor comforting him and holding him while he cried, Idril tending to his hurt knee. Maeglin had watched unseen from a balcony, resentment, jealousy, and longing curdling in his chest. At the same time, he’d wondered how it could be so easy for them. Eärendil had gotten up in no time, smiling again, his knee bandaged, and he’d reached for both his parents’ hands.

He wonders still how it remained so easy for Eärendil even after he had become a man grown – though Maeglin would always see him as Idril’s child first. Whenever the boy held him, or kissed him. Taking him into his arms while Maeglin was stiff and uncertain, unused to being touched in affection after so long. He wonders even now as Eärendil puts an arm around him, gently pulling his head down so it’s cradled on his lap. His hands stroking through his hair and Maeglin’s eyes burn because it’s a sensation from his childhood that he thought he’d forgotten. When his mother would cradle him in her arms and tell him about her family, the great big wide world out there that they would see once they were free.

Now Idril’s son is stroking his hair, the back of his neck, down his back. Soothing him until the trembling eases and his breathing isn’t quite so strained. The terror remains, but muted just the slightest bit by comfort.

Eärendil, very gently, kisses him on the temple.

“I don’t want to leave until you’re ready to tell me.” He says softly. “But if you aren’t – tonight, or tomorrow. Know that I’m here.” He curls a hand, protective, around the back of Maeglin’s head. “I’ll wait for you until you’re ready. And I won’t allow you to be hurt again.” Maeglin closes his eyes. When Eärendil reaches for his hand, he clings to it. Neither of them sleep all night.

**Author's Note:**

> Me to Taga_Bakod: Who do I have to promise a silmaril to in exchange for Maeglin/Older Earendil fic around these parts.  
Taga_Bakod: Didn't I promise you one last December?  
Me: .. Nvm I've got one now.


End file.
